A Complicated Problem
by moriartygotswag
Summary: Crimes in London have stopped. Good news for most, not so good for the people who solve them. Sherlock and John are in a rut, until an impossible stranger shows up asking for help.


"Who is it?"

The doorbell rang again in reply. In one movement, the two men turned to one another, the word 'case' on each other's silent mouths, their eyes alight for the first time in weeks. It wasnt the first time there had been a dry spell, but it was certainly the worst. Not even a case they refused to take or even a fake case from a slightly unhinged fan. Nothing. It was as if London had shut down and bad things had just stopped happening.

The doorbell rang again, longer and more insistently this time, and the two men, so different physically, were momentarily identical as they began to inhabit the roles that had, for a while, been vacant. The shorter, more human looking of the two, jumped up, tugging at his jumper and running a lazy hand through his tidy hair. The other, much taller and with so much more of an unnatural presence remained seated, but straightened his collar and picked p the violin that was sitting against the armchair. They heard the sounds of the front door being opened, and the general mumble of a brief conversation before the inevitable sound of footsteps up the stairs to their flat.

Neither man was prepared for what came through the doorway, alone, clearly having dealt with their landlady more efficiently than either of them thought possible. Almost as tall as the seated man, this visitor was all energy, all important, and, for once, appeared to be not only the cleverest in the room but also the maddest.

Without any form of acknowledgement, he burst in, throwing his long brown coat on to the sofa as if he had lived there for years, all the while grinning like a madman. The men were speechless. There was usually some sort of reverential air about their clients, as if they couldn't believe they were actually meeting _the_ consulting detective. Without realising it, they had become the admirers, something the shorter man recognised immediately.

"Right then!" exclaimed the stranger. "Let's get started shall we?"

He turned to the standing man, who looked slightly outraged.

"John Watson! How lovely to meet you. You're brilliant you know, just brilliant. Truly. Love to have you on board some day." With this he turned to man in the chair, a man who suddenly looked rather jealous.

"And you sir, you must be the one and only Sherlock Holmes, oh I know all about you. A 'consulting detective.' That is fantastic. It also means that you're probably the only person in the whole of London, maybe even the universe, who can help me."

"That's statistically unlikely, but probably true. Before we help anyone, however, we have to know the case." Sherlock was short him, still feeling a little put out, but better now he was regaining control.

"Well, you see, it's complicated." The stranger paused, mid-thought. "Very complicated. I'm the Doctor by the way, pleased to meet you. Have you got a cup of tea? Love a good cuppa me, very healing. Anyway, yes, complicated."

Sherlock interrupted him, annoyed that he had lost the brief feeling of being in control.

"Nothing is ever truly complicated, just a simple matter of observation and deduction, that's all."

The Doctor grinned.

"Oh now this _is_ complicated. This is very tricky. You see, time's gone wrong in a very complicated way, and that's changing the present, which in turn changes the future, which leads to some very complicated complications." He paused, still grinning his mad grin. "I love complicated."

Both Sherlock and John stared, utterly perplexed by the man standing between them.

John was the first one to break the spell, throwing his hands up and exclaiming.

"He's mad, Sherlock. Our first client in weeks and he's a nutter!"

"I'm mad alright, but this is no delusion. This is more real than anything that's happened in a long time, and right now a detective is what I need."

"Come on, Sherlock, listen to him, he's mental. I don't believe this!" John moaned, sitting down heavily on the sofa next to the coat.

Sherlock said nothing, but narrowed his eyes at this doctor. He was lost. His face said thirty-five, forty at most, but his eyes were far too old, impossibly old. His suit was nice, mid-range price, unknown designer, worn often. The shoes were practical, comfortable, rubber-soled. Well worn. The right jacket pocket had an unusual bulge, not a phone, not a gun, not a knife, maybe not even a weapon, but long and thin. Despite what he could observe, there was little he could deduce. Sensible footwear, not in bad shape, so obviously a man who takes exercise but only light or brief spells. Clothes well looked after but well-worn, so he has relatively few clothes, or develops deep attachments to certain outfits. The device is in an easy to reach place, seemingly the only thing on him, so travels light and has need for the thing often. No clear overriding picture. There was no way to analyse this man and that scared Sherlock.

"So then, 'Doctor,' tell me about this complicated problem."


End file.
